


Post-Game

by aesc



Series: Nantucket AU [42]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-30
Updated: 2007-12-30
Packaged: 2018-10-16 21:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10579764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/pseuds/aesc
Summary: Football.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amberlynne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberlynne/gifts).



> Written for amberlynne, to whom I promised porn in the event of the New England Patriots beating the New York Giants to finish at 16-0 for the year. Which they did, and so there's porn!
> 
> And many thanks as always to dogeared, who stayed up late to audience and kept an eye on the game for me :D

  
For Rodney it's almost anticlimactic, no Hail Mary, Doug-Flutie style, only a failed on-side kick (John has explained this strategy, and has been commentating the entire game even though there are several highly-paid people to do it for him), and then Tom Brady taking a knee to end what John has taken to calling The Game. Note the capital letters.  
  
Still, John keeps the tension he'd built up during the Giants' last drive, leaning forward and body drawn taut when what Rodney guesses is the on-side kick formation starts to jog, and the kicker lightly taps the ball ten yards down the field. "So close," John mutters, the score 38-35 with a minute left in the last quarter.  
  
He almost comes out of his chair when the kicker connects with the ball and the ball bounces its awkward, oblong way down the field.  
  
He _does_ come out of his chair, positively _launches_ out of it, when Brady kneels and the Patriots flood off the bench in a wave of silver. He punches the air with one emphatic fist, shouts _YES_ one time in the loudest voice Rodney's ever heard from him, and oh God, he’s _smiling_ , hugely, helplessly, and Rodney has to watch him, sharper than the picture on their high-definition TV.  
  
"Fuck, Rodney," John's saying, voice _shaking_ , "fuck, Rodney, they did it, they fucking did it! I mean, did you see that?"  
  
"I sat through all three hours of it with you," Rodney says dryly, "so unless I was stricken by spontaneous blindness, then yes I did." But John really isn't listening, Rodney can tell--he's too elated and nothing like, say, Rodney's solid connection to reality, is going to bring him down.  
  
And then all of a sudden, with the racket of the crowd and the announcers trying to yell over it, John turns to Rodney and Rodney has about .05 seconds to think _he's going to_ \-- before John pounces on him, manic, _everywhere_ , coiled energy unleashed with an abandon John rarely allows himself.  
  
John's muttering nonsense against Rodney's mouth--game statistics, prayers of gratitude directed to Tom Brady, Rodney really doesn't know--but he's still smiling, Rodney can feel it, the fingers on his face shaking with adrenaline and confusion, like sports-related ecstasy is so disorienting John has no idea what to do first. And Rodney is dimly aware that John is kissing him while the announcers are staring out at them from their hi-definition TV, and it's kind of unnerving, but not distracting enough to pull him from John's mad kisses, pressed all over his mouth, his face, his forehead.  
  
All he can do is lie there, pretty much, drowned by John's exuberance, say nonsense things of his own that John's too far gone to hear. John works down Rodney's throat, swift, bright nips and hot breath, pleased sounds that vibrate up and down Rodney's spine. There’s nothing to do, not even touch, John too distracted to keep still or help, muscles shivering on the rare occasions when Rodney gets a hand on an arm, or his shoulder, the racketing pulse in his neck.  
  
John gets away from him, sliding like oil out from under Rodney’s hands, sliding down, down Rodney’s torso. Rodney almost goes cross-eyed, looking down the length of his own body, John wedged awkward and excited between his legs, pushing his shirt up with one hand. John grins back up at him, full-on smiles like his face is going to freeze that way, goes back to licking Rodney's stomach, working a hand under rucked-up fabric to play across his chest, his nipples.  
  
Rodney squeaks at that; mercifully, the shouting of crowds in Boston bars, helpfully broadcast to emphasize New England's collective jubilation, drowns it out. He can't help twisting into John's hand, though, and John laughs at that, his terrible, delighted laugh that ends with a strangled whoop that Rodney tells himself is not endearing.  
  
Really, there's nothing else to do, Rodney thinks as John makes quick, happy work of yanking off his pants and pulling down his boxers. John pulls him along like a rip current, too fast for Rodney to even process anything beyond pleasure and John's hands and his kisses on Rodney's hip, his breath on Rodney's cock, his _tongue_ flat on the head, a preliminary to sliding down and the complete, hot closeness of John’s mouth.  
  
Need strangles the cry in Rodney's throat, spins everything down to John's mouth around him, John shouldering one of his knees to work a hand underneath him, to play down and down his ass. And it's all so fast, not John's usual deliberate taking-apart, but this headlong, what-the-hell-let’s-go-now rush of heat and the pressure of fingers and John's tongue firm and quick along the underside of his cock just the way Rodney likes, the way that's guaranteed to make him—  
  
He comes with the sensation of John's inarticulate fingers slipping on his hip, his sloppy, wet (soft, beautiful, perfect) mouth. His hands are in John’s hair, clenching tight, but John doesn’t mind, just shakes his head until Rodney lets go. And John licks over him, not to clean up but just to _do_ it, still grinning, flinging himself back up Rodney's body, a lushly messy kiss on a mouth that Rodney's opened in the event he can breathe again. Wet fingers on his face, thumb stroking Rodney's cheekbone, John somewhere in the fog of after-orgasm, still, still smiling.  
  
"Did you?" Rodney asks when John lets him up and he thinks he might not die.  
  
John lifts himself up on an elbow, twists and looks down at himself, faintly red, smile turning maybe a bit embarrassed. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "I did."  
  
Rodney flops bonelessly back into the couch. John follows, flopping bonelessly onto _Rodney_ , who grunts, and when John lifts himself back up after Rodney voices entirely reasonable concerns about hypoxia, his eyes are clear, bright, his smile contagious now, and Rodney has to smile back.  
  
John kisses him thoroughly one last time, deep, his tongue stroking Rodney's, soft whistle of his breath and the scrape of evening stubble. The announcers talk on about history making and statistics and things John can (and does) recite in his sleep.  
  
"I really hope they win the Super Bowl," Rodney says, when he can speak again, and John laughs, settles beside him, electric and restless, even lying still.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who don't follow American football, no team has ever had a perfect season (16 wins, 0 losses); the only team to have a perfect season was the '72 (I think) Miami Dolphins, when the league was on a 14-game schedule. So for US football fans, especially New England Patriots fans, this is a very big deal.
> 
> The only reason I know this is because I am currently in New Hampshire, where the nightly news is 80% primary election and 19.999% Patriots Making History. I am a hockey girl myself :D


End file.
